


Valentine

by orphan_account



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, M/M, Pining Richie Tozier, Prompt Fill, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 'Richie’s hand brushes against him. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but hopeful too, and something stirs inside him — something both hot and cold, something entirely new and different; unexplored territory. It pulls him up short. Richie’s looks afraid when he stops.“I’ve an idea,” is all Eddie can manage to say. He stays still. “It’s probably a joke, though.” And he watches Richie’s eyes, marvels at intensity; watches how they look right back, searching golden constellations, careful and diligent.'Or: Fluff ensues after Eddie, upon finding a note from Richie, decides to take matters into his own hands. Prompt credit: @nohohank on Tumblr.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short, brief one-shot to get back into the swing of writing. Prompt credit: @nohohank on Tumblr. Find me @ourmayqueen, also on Tumblr. Thanks!

Eddie’s known Richie since the third day of kindergarten — has learned nearly every detail about him since, studying and acclimating to his thoughts, behaviours, tics. Richie’s favourite colour, for example, is yellow. Despite this, and despite the sunny disposition, he detests summer, and Eddie knows this not because of how much time Richie insists of investing in lamenting over the short, brief heatwaves Maine annually experiences. No — he knows this because Richie favours winter instead; favours listening to the downpour of rain, favours photographing bare trees because he’s thoroughly intrigued by the contrast of the moss-laden branches, thin and stretching, against pale skies; favours hot cocoa and cream, and curling up next to Eddie, sleepy and warm as they watch reruns of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and converse lazily past midnight, low and surreptitious.

He knows that he’s the first person Richie looks to when he relays a joke to the group, and that Richie can’t decide whether he feels more self-conscious over his canines, his nose, or his glasses — all of which, Eddie thinks, co-exist in a way so unconventionally attractive. Lord knows it’s something he’d take to his grave, this entirely platonic observation. Needless to say, he knows a lot about Richie — immerses himself in the knowledge of him, willing and eager. Among those things — and so, so much more — Eddie’s come to be familiarised with Richie’s penmanship; sees it all the time, in birthday and Christmas cards, peer markings, notes discreetly exchanged during lessons. 

This is important, and it’s important because it’s a week before Valentine’s day. It’s important because as soon as Eddie decodes his padlock and opens his locker, a note sails to the ground, its edges torn as though it’d been ripped on a whim from a pukka pad; important because when Eddie collects it, the writing is so utterly, distinctly Richie, reading: ‘you’re pretty cute i wanna make out with you - anonymous’ in spidery, near on illegible font. Perhaps had it fallen into the hands of someone else they’d consider it a loss, but Eddie knows. He allows the corners of his lips to lift up slightly, though the absurdity of it, however, slowly melts away. Realisation sprouts like the first tell-tale signs of Spring. He quickly tames the feeling blooming in his chest — because what? Why? — and shakes his head, determined. He refuses to be a punchline. 

The reaction he receives when he announces it at lunch, however, isn’t quite the one he was anticipating. “Isn’t that funny?” he tries weakly, hyper-aware of how pink Richie’s cheeks are; of the knowing look Stan gives the both of them, as though they’re the stupidest people alive. Eddie decides, silently, around a forkful of pasta that perhaps he isn’t wrong. He does this while pointedly avoiding both the suggestive, meaningful looks the group shares and the flush high on Richie’s cheeks. It’s with apprehension he swallows, a furrow between his brow. 

They’re walking back home when Richie asks, “Any idea who that note might be from?” and Eddie almost — almost, almost, almost — laughs at the feigned nonchalance; the insincerity. He manages to tame it, reigning it in before it manages to spill. He can’t quite suppress the smile though, and he turns his head away, quiet. Richie’s hand brushes against him. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but hopeful too, and something stirs inside him — something both hot and cold, something entirely new and different; unexplored territory. It pulls him up short. Richie’s looks afraid when he stops. 

“I’ve an idea,” is all Eddie can manage to say. He stays still. “It’s probably a joke, though.” And he watches Richie’s eyes, marvels at intensity; watches how they look right back, searching golden constellations, careful and diligent. 

“You’re insane if you think anyone would joke about making out with you." 

The ball’s in his court, Eddie realises. Still searching, he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, "And who said anything about making out?” And then Richie blanches, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose. It shouldn’t be as endearing, Eddie thinks as he watches, the corners of his eyes scrunching as he begins to smile. Richie resorts to silence, a rare occurrence, and Eddie giggles, so honeyed and warm it coerces a simper on Richie’s otherwise pale, panic-stricken face. The desire to kiss him — to take the fear, the panic away; to feed love through skin, warm and wet — becomes palpable, so much so it weighs heavily behind his eyes and inside his throat. It’s with clammy, shaking hands that he brackets Richie’s face and erases the space between them, insistent and certain. There’s hands far bigger than his own on the nape of his neck and the small of his back, holding him, and Eddie feels a tide of emotion so strong he sobs against Richie’s lips. 

He wonders, then, how much of him Richie’s absorbed — whether he knows his favourite colour, his favourite season; what his fears are. But when they part and Richie presses his forehead to Eddie’s, still touching — always touching, Eddie can’t find it within him to doubt otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be sure to leave kudos! Thank you.


End file.
